Pressure Points
by PasDuTout
Summary: The world would burn before he ever gave her up. Sherlock Holmes has managed to take his secret weapon, his wicked girl, but he will pay for it. London will be ashes, and she will be his again. Just as it always was. Let the game begin. Set after His Last Vow. Sherlock/OC Moriarty/OC
1. Wicked Girl

_**Pressure Points**  
_

-Wicked Girl-

_She heard the crackle of fire from the hallway, and her ruby lips stretched into a smile as she peered through the crack in the door to see the shadow of a figure illuminated by flickering flames. Emma smoothed her hands down the silk of her evening gown, flexing their joints against the cramp of a long day's work in the cold. She'd just come from the site, had only enough time to wash her skin, tidy her hair, and slip into the gown before her presence was requested for a "follow-up". It had been snowing for most of the afternoon and well into the evening, which she'd spent in a garage with little insulation, and absolutely no heat. She looked forward to standing in front of the flames until her skin sweat and burned. _

_ She pushed the door open, bare feet padding silently across the distressed hickory hardwood as she surveyed the room. Every detail of this study, from the built-in library with shelves neatly lined with a motley collection of works, to Judith Slaying Holofernes, a Gentileschi original proudly hung above the marble fireplace, every detail was chosen with the utmost precision and care. This was his sanctuary. She paused at the arm of the couch, hand resting lightly on the maroon velvet as her gaze dropped to the man sitting squarely at the center of the cushions. His back straight, hands in his lap, mobile phone clutched loosely in the left. A suit jacket had been discarded, leaving only a pressed pair of black slacks and a white button down, its sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a solid plum colored tie loosened around his neck. Eyes were closed, features were relaxed, headphones were in, and a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. _

_ It had been a good day for him, and it was because of her. _

_ Emma smiled proudly to herself, and intended to relocate in front of the fire, but he spoke first, a calm, quiet murmur that broke the meditative silence and rooted her feet to the floor. "Is it done?" His eyes remained closed. _

_ She averted her gaze, mentally checking off the highlights of her day. The traitor had been found and delivered. She'd tried him, found him guilty, and sentenced him in all of thirty seconds. And as punishment for his crimes, his loose tongue and betrayal of trust, she tore him limb from limb. Slowly._

_ "Yes sir," she responded, red-painted fingertips playing lightly at the soft fabric on the arm of the couch. She looked up from the motion to find his gaze now on her, dark irises penetrating and unwavering. _

_ "The body." Though it wasn't a question, it required a response, and he did not blink as he awaited an answer. _

_ "Gone," was all she said, though her mind drifted to the image of flesh and bone dissolving in several storage bins of sulfuric acid. Her confirmation was enough for him. He smiled and turned away, resuming his original position. _

_ "I like that dress," he said, voice taking on a higher volume as he removed the buds from his ears and tossed the mobile aside. "Was it expensive?"_

_ "Yes," she said, and could feel her skin flush with warmth as he hummed his response, eyes trailing the length of her, hesitating over the plunging neckline, and the way the midnight blue material curved over her breasts, clung to her hips, draped over her thighs. _

_ "Shame."_

_ Emma remained still even as he stood, gaze locked on her like a predator to its prey, closing the distance between them with smooth, silent grace. His power coursed, thick as molten lava, and just as hot. He smelled of cigar smoke and cinnamon, its effect dizzying and hypnotic. Mesmerizing. She worked to steady her breaths. _

_ Looking him in the eye was a dangerous thing to do, but she searched the curve of his cheekbones, the shade of stubble over his chin, upper lip, the muscles of his face which appeared to be in a state of complete relaxation, even as he grabbed at the small of her back, pressing their centers together forcefully. She leaned against the hardness of him, exhaling through her nose as she felt his palm slip to cup the curve of her ass. _

_ "You missed a spot," he said. Emma did not know what he meant until his head dropped, and she shuddered pleasantly against the wet tickle of his tongue along the hairline above her ear. She'd neglected a smudge of blood during her hasty cleanup, and he lapped up the remnants in a slow, deliberate swirl. "My wicked girl."_

_ Emma clutched tightly at his biceps at the endearment. She loved when he called her that. Wicked. His. His voice was soft, and she could feel his smile against her skin. He was pleased, which meant that tonight he would reward her until she begged to be punished. The tip of his nose trailed along the curve of her neck until he pulled back. "Look at me."_

_ She didn't waste a single second, locking her line of sight with his. It was so difficult to hold her own against his gaze. It always was. She could never match the passion, the supremacy, the focus within the two abysses that challenged the integrity of her shallow pools. She tried anyway, testing her strength against his unwavering stare because that's what he liked about her: the strength, the fight. She could feel him deep inside her mind, obliterating all she thought she knew, making room for all there was yet to learn. Rearranging, reorganizing her thoughts, her memories, past, present, future, dreams, desires, all to include him. She lived for these moments, when he looked at her, and suddenly he was everywhere, and everything. Cinnamon, fire, voice like siren song. A spring tide wrapping itself around her and pulling her out to sea. She was defenseless. She couldn't bring herself to care. As long as there was James Moriarty, there would be Emma, and she would always be his._

* * *

She was so close. All that was between her and reprieve was fifteen steps from the cab up to the door. It was early morning – just after sunrise. The house would be asleep. But they would be home, and she knew she would find help. She could always find help there. Mary would know what to do.

Emma grabbed the last of the bills from her pocket and put them into the cabbie's hand. She quietly thanked him, and turned to quickly climb out of the back seat. Her range of motion was quite limited, and a ten-hour flight had done nothing to help her condition. A quick stitching of the gash along her hairline in a gas station bathroom and a heavy layer of foundation over the bruises on her face and neck had gotten her through the airport and on a flight without too many suspicious looks. But she could feel the fractures in her ribs, the painful bruising and swelling along her chest and arms, which a long sleeved shirt and jacket had been easy to cover. She hadn't had enough time to take a full inventory of the damage, only where it hurt and how to ignore it. It didn't matter really. She'd made it to London.

Emma gripped the edge of the car door to steady herself before slamming it closed. Then, she limped her way through an iron gate and up several steps leading to the front door of a townhouse. Only fifteen steps. It felt longer. Emma knew this was the one because she would always know where Mary Morstan was. Whenever she moved, whenever she changed jobs, names, identities, Emma would know, just like she knew that it was Mary Watson now, and inside that house was a civilian husband and a sleeping child. The bullet points of her cover story were kept at the forefront of her mind as she approached the door.

She paused, inhaled deeply, and knocked soundly on the green paint. Then waited. Emma winced against a jab of pain in her chest, exhaling slowly as she looked around. The townhouse was flanked by two other identical structures, and stood out as the only white paint job amongst a dull gray on the suburban block. The street was quiet, the cab having already disappeared. Heavy overcast for a morning that promised rain. She felt the sudden urge to sob.

The door swung open, and Emma spun to greet the woman, this new version of her she'd only seen in candids. Short blonde hair, slim, straight nose, and a bit of extra weight from pregnancy. The eyes were the same, wide like a doe's and a sharp pewter blue. She found comfort in them. "My god," Mary said. She'd altered her voice as well, to a lighter tone and a foreign accent.

"I need your help." Emma stared at her friend, her confidant, and hoped she would be able to overcome the shock of her presence quickly. She was cold. She was hurting. And she needed to get out of plain sight.

"You're supposed to be dead," Mary breathed, her eyes growing wider.

"We're all supposed to be dead," she countered, biting the inside of her cheek as her muscles contracted painfully against the morning chill. Death provided the ultimate anonymity. There wasn't any other way out of the game. Well, Mary had wanted out. Emma had a different game she wanted to play.

"How did you find me," Mary demanded, voice darkening as her body subconsciously morphed itself into a fighter's stance. Emma did her best to keep a straight face. Neither of them were built for civilian life, it seemed.

"Easy," she shrugged. "I never lost track of you."

Mary rolled her eyes and blinked slowly, clearly disappointed in herself that she should've known better. Emma had always been the better tracker of them. She folded her arms over her chest and stared her down for a long minute. Emma knew that her physical and emotional condition was quickly being analyzed, and a decision would soon be made on whether or not it was safe to let her inside.

It was not, but Emma prayed to be taken in anyway.

"What's happened, then?" Straight to the point. Instant relief swept over her. She didn't care where she'd been, or how she'd suddenly come back from the "dead". She wasn't interested in how Emma had kept tabs on her all these years, even as her identities altered. She only cared about why she was on her doorstep now, and what she could do to help. Mary had always been a hard shell, uninterested in the details, preferring core facts, swift action, and positive results. It's why Emma knew she could come.

"Moriarty," Emma said, and was not prepared to watch as Mary's composure visibly disappeared almost instantly. "James Moriarty is going to kill me."

* * *

_"I need you to go away for a while."_

_Emma huffed, glancing over her shoulder at the man who stood, focused on the screen of his mobile as his thumbs jabbed out a quick message. All she wanted was silence, and was prepared to tell him to take his untimely conversation outside when she realized that he was speaking to her. "Me?"_

_Moriarty rolled his eyes dramatically, head jerking as he drawled, "yeah, you!" with annoyed mockery._

_Her heart jumped in her chest at the confirmation. He never asked her to go away. Not unless it was more dangerous, more complex than he thought she could handle. This was an extreme rarity, and only meant he would be dealing with individuals as erratic and treacherous as he was, and he could not be one hundred percent sure what the outcome of their interactions would be. She hated when he did this._

_"Why?" she asked, but what she really wanted to know was "who?"_

_Moriarty smirked. He could see it in her face, the real question. He pocketed his mobile and took several deliberately slow steps towards her. "I'm going to be playing a little game with Sherlock," he said, and did not hide the animated pleasure in his voice._

_Emma turned away. Again, the obsession with the Holmes brothers. She returned to fiddling with the height of the tripod in front of her. Two English brothers with large brains – her boss's new favorite toys. They were clever – clever like him, and there were few things he loved more than learning how their minds worked, what made them tick, and sending them on experimental exercises to discover just that. It was all fun to him, which infuriated her because if it was only fun, then she couldn't understand for the life of her why she couldn't be involved._

_"Aren't you going to ask me what it is?" he stuffed his hands in his pockets, bending his knees a bit as his eyes gleamed with excitement._

_"No," she said, earning a loud sigh. She peered through the scope, and re-positioned the rest a few degrees to the left. "You never involve me, so why do I care what little games you play with your toys?"_

_Thick fingers wove through her hair, grabbing a fistful at the scalp, and yanked sharply. She cried out at the sudden, unexpected pain, hands flying up in an attempt to loosen the pressure of his grip. She winced as his face came into view, hovering over hers. "Because you are mine," he enunciated with a vicious sneer._

_"You let Sebastian play," Emma fought back, glaring up into the black orbs above her. "I'm just valuable as he is, I have every right-"_

_His lips crashed on hers, just long enough to silence her words with his tongue and keep more from coming with a warning bite to her bottom lip. He released his hold on her with forceful toss, and Emma gripped the back of the chair she currently straddled as she regained equilibrium._

_"Sebastian is indispensable," Moriarty said with a shrug as he slid his hands back into his pockets, deadpanned expression slowly transforming with a bright new thought. "But you, my darling, are my secret weapon. Can't have the brothers knowing about you, oh no. Do you understand?"_

_"So you're sending me away."_

_"Only for a little bit – oh don't look so pathetic."_

_"If they're as dangerous as you say they are, then you could use me out there," Emma defended her stance, but was only received with an look of disgust._

_"Do I need to draw you a picture? When Moriarty plays with Sherlock, Emma goes away! Have I made myself perfectly clear?"_

_"You have, but-"_

_"Have I!"_

_The words were stunted on her tongue, and the temperature of the room grow cold enough that she could feel the flush in her cheeks. There wasn't any arguing with him. She was foolish to have tried. "I just won't see you killed," she bit out quietly, gaze dropping to her lap._

_Emma heard his chuckle from behind her, and felt the warmth of him as he leaned down over her, head on her shoulder, resting his cheek against hers. He freed his hands, and began to adjust the focus on the scope, rotating the rest a few degrees back to the right. "Darling," he said, and she closed her eyes against the soothing vibrations of his voice. "We will always be one step ahead. Always. Take the shot."_

_He retreated, and she opened her eyes, straightened her back, and placed her hands over the rifle. She peered into the scope, found her man already on location, and in position for solid kill shot. She pulled the trigger. _

* * *

I made a boo-boo. I developed a new obsession. Emma's relationship with Moriarty will be established through flashbacks in a story that will jump quite a bit. I'll do my best to make it artistic and entertaining, though. Sherlock will enter in the next chapter. This Chapter moved a bit quickly, but I promise the story will slow down. I just wanted to put it out there to see what kind of response it might get. LOVE me some Moriarty, and Sherlock, and was very curious to see what might happen if we threw an OC into the mix. Let me know what you think!


	2. Far Behind

**Pressure Points**

_-Choices-_

_No._

A surge of adrenaline coursed through Emma, freezing her muscles in a painful contraction. She could not feel her heart beat. She wouldn't be surprised if it wasn't, and she was seconds away from collapsing to the ground in a sudden death, because that's what it would be – death. If it were true.

The story continued, breaking news coverage of the tragedy at St. Bartholomew's hospital. It was a frenzy of reporters struggling to keep an ongoing narrative of the events as they unfolded. It was confirmed that the world's only consulting detective had jumped to his death, reasons unknown. Another body, of Richard Brook, had been found on the roof. Apparent suicide by gunfire. Emma was intrigued to hear of Holmes' sudden death, knowing that Moriarty had been off indulging himself the last several months. But when Richard Brook was identified, _his _picture was shown on screen. Moriarty. She didn't understand.

With shaking hands, she struggled to dial him. Over and over, panic escalating each time she was sent to voicemail. He was fine, of course. This was all part of a game. She was being silly. Why would they broadcast his picture, though they identified the man by another name? It was a technical error. The mistake would be fixed and the face of Richard Brook would be up on screen any moment.

But he wouldn't pick up his phone.

Emma dropped her mobile, clutching her face in her hands, and allowed her mind to race through the best and the worst scenarios. The room spun and her body quaked and her lungs were failing to inhale. But she forced herself to take a deep breath, open her eyes, and pick up the phone again.

_"Em."_

He answered on the first ring. "Seb, what's going on at Bart's?" she demanded.

_"I don't know." _She found no comfort in Sebastian's quick and wavering tone. _"That wasn't supposed to happen. We're trying to get up there and sort it out, but Scotland Yard has the place locked down."_

"What happened? Sort what out? What's going on?" She could hear her voice begin to raise into a yell. This was bad. She would not like Sebastian's answer.

_"He shot himself, Em. Boss is dead – I watched him do it."_

His statement had not fully registered when she asked, "What was he doing up there?"

_"He had this plan, a plan to get Sherlock to kill himself. Fuck, Em – I don't know! I don't know why he would do that!" _

"Where are you? Are you safe?"

_"I'm across the street. Uh, Lucius is here with me. He's on the phone with the coroners. We're going to get him out of there."_

Emma nodded, though she knew Sebastian couldn't see. Moriarty had bought himself a vast network, with lots of friends in low places. Everywhere. They'd get his body out safely, away from the prying hands and eyes of the law, and in the proper custody of his family.

It hit her in that moment, her string of thoughts, and the weight of the words she'd just exchanged with Sebastian. _His_ _body. _He was dead. James Moriarty had killed himself.

"I'll call you in a bit," she told Sebastian, ending the conversation abruptly as a heaviness forced her to the ground. She fell hard to her knees, threw her arm out for balance as nausea sent her stomach tumbling. She stared but could not see. Her mind emptied of all but his face. Espresso eyes, wide smile of genuine amusement. He was always amused. He had the world at his fingertips, and yet he'd chosen to give that up. _But for what?_

He was dead. Deceased. A corpse on a rooftop waiting to be put in the ground. All that genius, all that creativity, the power, the potential for more, vanished instantly by the pull of a trigger.

As long as there was James Moriarty, there would always be Emma. Now that was gone. Finished. Without his fire, her world was cold, and it was empty. All was ashes. There was nothing left.

* * *

There were people in the world that deserved to die, and that's why there were people like her. It was a statement that had been drilled into her head since she was young. Recruited just out of school, she was ideal for her undistinguished resume, lack of any significant relations or social status, and an extraordinary ability to be overlooked. She was the perfect candidate to make an easy disappearance. They taught her how to be quick, cruel, and devious; how to lie, steal, cheat, but not tolerate others who do. She could kill, and not lose a wink of sleep over it, because at some point in their lives they had all done something to earn it, and she was simply karma making its rounds. She was a soldier, an extractor, a technician, a spy. She could execute a full grown man in a crowded room, and still stay for champagne. It took a lot of work to become what she was, but it led her to him.

She was assigned to extract information from him. She had him all to herself for three days. A suave, attractive businessman with an Irish brogue. He was eccentric, and talkative, and annoyed the living hell out of her. In return, she refused to feed him. Strung him up by his wrists and made him stand on the tips of his toes when she was in sight of him, locked him inside a small heated box when she wasn't. She had three days to get a name from him. The name of his boss, who had caused quite a ruckus in the corporate world by throwing contracts out the window and double-crossing his associates. His business was by word of mouth. No one had met him. No one knew his name, or what he looked like. He worked through middlemen, and so they found one for her.

He'd worn her patience to the bone by the third day. After giving her several false leads, she was prepared to kill him and start fresh with another henchman, though she would not be happy to go looking for one.

He knelt naked before her, bruised, bloodied, sickeningly pale and smelling of sweat, but smiling. "What is your name?" he asked.

"You don't ask the questions here, Jim, you know that," she said calmly, and bit her tongue when he laughed pleasantly.

"I like you, I really do," he sighed, shaking his head.

"And I'd like it if you gave me a name. A _real _name, Jim."

"What will happen when I do?"

She'd answered these questions before. Many times before. Perhaps he'd gone too long in that hotbox without water. "We will clothe you. We will feed you. We will let you get a good night's sleep in a very nice bed –"

"Can it be _your _bed?" He chanced with hopeful delight as she stared down at him. Instead of responding to the insinuation, she approached at a different angle.

"Let me remind you what will happen if you _don't _give me a name, Jim." She softened her voice, as though she were chiding a young one. Her brow rose and her eyes widened as she adopted the façade of mild sadness and regret for what would come if he did not cooperate. "I will hurt you. I will drown you. I will put you back in the box. And the next time I take you out of the box – I really can't say when that will be Jim – I will kill you." She concluded by pressing her lips together with a small nod.

His left eye was swollen shut, but he stared up at her through his right, dark irises blazing, daring her to follow through. How quickly his appearance could go from gleeful to threatening. In the blink of an eye. She noticed the change often. One eyebrow lifted, cracked lips parted slightly as he held her gaze, unblinking.

"How would you do it?" he prompted.

"Pardon?"

"Kill. Me. How would you do it?"

"Slowly," she said honestly. "You've been a pain in my ass. I wouldn't mind watching you die." Emma allowed that to hang in the air for a moment before presenting her final offer one last time. "His name, Jim, and you have the rest of your life ahead of you."

His features slowly began to soften, head bobbing lightly as he averted his gaze. After a minute of thought, he surprised her with a valid response. "Moriarty. That's the name, the only name you'll need. Do with it what you will."

She waited for a shift of his eye, a twitch in a muscle, anything that would catch him in a lie. He was a statue, staring up at her in unyielding resilience, waiting for her to make the next move.

"Moriarty," she considered the name as it moved on her lips. "That's what you're giving me, knowing that if I find out you're lying to me, I will kill you."

"Yes."

"All right," she responded with a stiff nod, and turned for the door. Her work was done. Let the desk dwellers do the rest.

"See you soon, darling," he called after her.

Emma did see him again, much to her surprise. A few days later she was summoned. Nothing out of the ordinary. On a Monday morning, anything could happen. She supposed it was a performance review, or perhaps another assignment so soon. But when she opened the door to the conference room, she did not expect so many sitting at the table before her.

Mr. Kassower, head of her company, was not present, but the fact that his assistant Mr. Cho was meant business was about to be dealt. Beside him sat another man that she did not recognize, though the stack of paper work and the lap top resting on the table in front of him said contracts, and therefore attorney.

Her eyes drifted over to the man sitting across from Mr. Cho. She did not expect to recognize him. Jim. Laughter bubbled in her chest at the initial thought that he might _actually _be trying to sue her, but she swallowed it. The swelling had gone down from his eye, the cracks on his skin scabbed over. The color in his skin had returned to a healthier shade, though the color of his bruises had faded to blotches of purple, yellow, and green in their ugly stages of healing. For what it was worth, he looked well in a tailored ebony suit, and she commended him for maintaining a steadfast composure despite all he'd been through.

"Agent, thank you for coming," Mr. Cho swept his hand in a gesture to take the seat beside his. She did, silently staring down the man across from her. He was to the right of Jim, tall, lean, slick ash brown hair and bright blue eyes. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin absentmindedly as he considered her.

"Agent, do you recognize this man?" she heard Mr. Cho say.

"Jim? Of course." She watched as the corner of his lips turned up in a faint smile at the sound of his name.

"You released him from interrogation three days ago, after he offered you a name."

"Yes."

"Tell us, what was that name?"

"Moriarty."

"Agent, are you aware that the man sitting in front of you is, in fact, James Moriarty?"

His smile had widened as he stared at her, and she glared back as she grasped the meaning of this new information. "_You're _Moriarty," she spoke directly to him.

"In the flesh," he said softly.

"Agent, Mr. Moriarty here is a valued colleague of Mr. Kassower, and he has offered a large sum to transfer your contract over to him. What you thought was an interrogation was, in fact, a job interview. It was a test to see if you had the qualifications he was looking for. Mr. Moriarty came out impressed. Well done."

"You let me torture you," she said, finding this situation difficult to believe. There were plenty of other tests he could have put her through, and he chose to assess the pain she could inflict on others _himself_. He was insane. The response he had for her was wide, innocent eyes, and an exaggerated shrug.

"I like to get my hands dirty every once in a while," he said. "It's fun."

The eyes of the man beside Moriarty remained downcast, though his mouth stretched into a lopsided smile.

"Tell me your name," the businessman said.

"I'm sure you already know it."

"Yes, but I want to hear it from _you."_

Her gaze swept over the room, to each individual man for a silent second. Names were identification. Ownership. Tools. Useful, but dangerous. "Emma," she offered, biting back a wince.

"Emma, here's my pitch: you work for me, I'll make you rich, and you'll be under my protection. Decline my offer, and you'll make me a _very _unhappy man, which in turn will leave Mr. Kassower quite disappointed. I assume a severance package would be in your near future."

She never took a threat very well, and she found it difficult to mask her annoyance. Emma blinked slowly, teeth clenched together tightly behind closed lips. She didn't know why he chose her, perhaps a recommendation from Mr. Kassower pointed him in the right direction. She didn't know the business he dealt, or the network he ran, but he had to be powerful if he could buy her. That wasn't how her company worked; they didn't raise fighters to sell them off.

But she knew what kind of man he was. Steadfast, resilient, ambitious. Fearless. He took what she dealt him in stride and with a smile on his face. He knew what she was made of because he chose to experience it firsthand. Not many would even fathom attempting to do that. His calm façade said that he knew much more about his surrounding environments than he let on, and the glint in his eye showed how much he was enjoying it. He promised both fortune and protection, and had complete confidence in his ability to provide. He wasn't asking her to join him, he was commanding her. She could work for a man like that.

"All right," she said, holding his gaze as his chin lowered in a slow, satisfied nod. "Let's do this."

* * *

She could count on two hands the amount of times they'd been alone in each other's presence. She didn't know what to do, neither did he, so they stood stiffly, side by side as they stared out through the open French doors leading down to the gardens of Moriarty's vast estate. It was Sebastian's now.

"I don't know what to say," she mused quietly, a sad smile stretching her lips. 'Goodbye' wasn't right; 'see you soon' felt like a lie.

"Where will you go?" Sebastian asked her, clasping his hands behind his back. He'd never asked her before then. She knew he'd hoped she would stay to help him protect Moriarty's legacy. She found that she could not, and he knew he could not make her.

"I don't know," she shrugged. Her flight that night was for San Salvador. She would not stay there. Emma figured she would eventually return stateside to lay low for awhile and allow herself time to grieve. She had not planned beyond that.

"Just take care of yourself, Em," he said, head turning to look down at her. "He'd kill me if I let anything happen to you."

"He's not doing a goddamn thing, Moran," she hissed. "He's dead."

Silence ensued, and she could feel his eyes on her, but was determined to avoid them, keeping her focus forward. "Right," he eventually relented.

"I should go," she said and took a few steps back, heels echoing against the hardwood. She hesitated, and then reached out to grip Sebastian's arm in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "Be safe, yeah?"

He nodded stiffly, which she returned, and dropped his gaze to the ground. He had big shoes to fill. It would be a terrifying journey to go at alone, and part of her did feel guilty for going. She inhaled deeply, allowing a lingering last look at him before she left it all behind.


	3. The Return

_**Pressure Points**_

_-Moving On-_

He was ordinary, but his intelligence and wit was sharper than most, so he figured she'd spent time working for the government. Maybe military, but most likely intelligence by her keen desire to keep quiet about her past. She let him believe that because as long as he did, he would never ask her to elaborate about where she'd come from and the things she had done. He never did. The past was the past, and the sins she may have committed were between her and God. She suffered, mostly silently but sometimes not, and he made it his personal responsibility to be there whether she needed him or not.

It surprised her daily how content he was with not knowing the complete truth. He cared only about the woman she was now, with him. For him, this was calm, quiet, beautiful Emma, with an excellent eye for detail and the most thrilling hunting partner he'd ever recruited. Her laugh was electric, her movement light and gracefully calculated like a choreographed dance. She was a mystery to him, but she was his, and he was smart enough to see a gem when he had it, and wise enough to understand that it would turn to dust in his hands if he chose to tempt it.

She met him when he hired her on, a guidance counselor for the bitter youth. Every high school needed them, and she had the credentials, or at least faked them. He was handsome, a bit older than her, previously an instructor in English before he accepted the role as principle. He reminded her every day how much he loved her. Brought her flowers to work, read her poetry underneath the apple tree in his backyard. They laughed in bed together to the monologues of late night talk show hosts, fought over money, and made love like it was the only thing left to do. He was the gentlest human being she'd ever encountered, and to have him be hers was a terrifying honor.

She was on Ambien for the hard nights, Xanax for the hard days. He understood that many of her experiences were the stuff of nightmares, and his patience with her was unrelenting. He held her in silence, and absorbed her anger like a sponge when she lashed out at him. He was not Moriarty. There was no extravagant lifestyle, no power, danger, excitement. He did not set fire to her skin with just his touch. He was tender and traditional in the bedroom. She could look him in the eye without drowning in the passion and ardor of his gaze.

It took a long time to come to terms with the fact that she no longer desired such a life. Emma could not remember a time before she had blood on her hands. She'd been recruited so young. Broken down and rebuilt into the soldier they needed her to be. She didn't know how many had died by her hand. Never remembered their names, their ages, the crimes they'd committed – if any at all – and if they'd deserved their deaths at all. It had never affected her, until she met Matthew.

He loved her, and for that she loved him. There was no judgment, or suspicion. He took her as she was, and was content with it. He opened up his home and his heart to her. He shared his faith with her in hopes that she might find comfort in it, and she was appreciative. She knew that her love for him would change in time; alter, transform, grow until it became something she could never live without, and she could feel it increasing each day with him. She would lose him if he knew the truth. She had been a part of a terrifying scheme, and had done horrible, horrible things, for which she would spend her whole life repenting. She wanted nothing more than to protect him from that truth, about this world, and about her.

Emma looked up at a hollow knock on her office door. A moment later, Matthew stuck his head inside. "You busy?" he asked.

"Not really," she replied with a shrug, absentmindedly moving the cursor around an empty computer screen.

"Good." He slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He opted for a suit, despite it being casual Friday. One of his nicer fits, she noticed, by the crisp creases of the flawlessly smooth charcoal gray fabric. Two buttons over a starch white dress shirt and a diagonally patterned tie, colors ranging from white to black, with a variety of grays in between. She lifted an eyebrow in interest at his choice of wardrobe. "I have a proposition."

"Oh?" Emma asked softly, watching as he took several steps to lean against the edge of her desk, a light smile on his tanned face.

"I have a meeting with some district execs this afternoon, so I'll be a little late getting home. You can take a nap, get all dolled up, do whatever it is you do, and when I get home we'll go somewhere nice. What do you say?"

She brought her hand up to her mouth, and laughed behind closed lips as he gave her a wink. Going somewhere nice meant enduring a half-hour commute into the city. The last thing she wanted after a long work week was to battle traffic and a chaotic street grid for a meal. But payday had been yesterday, and their anniversary was just around the corner. His eagerness to please was ever present, and she could not find it in herself to disappoint him.

"Sounds wonderful," she said, watching as he bit the inside of his bottom lip to tame a satisfied grin.

"I shouldn't be home any later than six. Also, do you want anything for lunch? I forgot it's shitty tomato soup day."

Emma did not forget, and so said, "I grabbed fajita leftovers. They're in your mini fridge."

He'd just opened the door again when Matthew paused, a small huff of adoration escaping him. "That's why I love you."

She took advantage of the fact that Matthew was working late to do the same herself. The end of term was quickly approaching, and student schedules weren't going to create themselves. She worked until she absolutely couldn't anymore, and locked up her office to hurry home.

She had no one but herself to blame. Her mind was too preoccupied with the way the sun was quickly setting, and how cold the night might be, and if she should dress for warmth or test her strength against the climate in something far more flashy for her fervent fiancé. She thought of whose car they should take, and where they should go to eat, or if he already had a place in mind and if he did she hoped he'd made reservations.

This was her life now. Routine, common, safe. There was no reason this day was unlike any other day, which would have forced her senses into a state of alert. She had no reason not to occupy the forefront of her thoughts with such trivial matters.

For this, she missed the glow of light illuminating the window of the upstairs bedroom. She overlooked the fact that the front door was already unlocked, and the violin melody drifting down from above. She absently assumed that Matthew had beat her home, parked in the garage, but if she'd only thought about it for a second, she would remember that Matthew never parks in the garage. If she'd only allowed herself a second, she would recognize that while Vivaldi, Bach, or even Mozart would not have been strange, the melody she heard was Mendelssohn's _Violin Concerto_. She would recall the only person and the only place her memories of it belonged to. It might have saved her life.

Instead, she dropped her purse on the foyer table, kicked her heels off and jogged up the stairs, looking forward to taking off her stockings and letting down her hair. She elbowed her way through the cracked bedroom door, fingers already working at the pins securing her bun. She leveled her eyes to the man sitting at the edge of the bed, prepared to ask him about the outcome of his meeting. In that instant he turned his face, and she found herself choking on a sharp intake of breath.

_Ghost_.

The thought was fleeting, because it was her only initial explanation. That was not flesh and fabric. She would reach for him and he would pass right through her, because he was not truly there. He was dead. Bones in a casket, because they'd buried him.

"Hello darling." She gasped at the familiarity of his low drawl, and the way the pits of his eyes searched the length of her. "Still alive!"

And alive he was. With the same pressed suits, the same slick black hair, the same five o'clock shadow. Like his absence the past two years had only been a dream.

Emma wanted an explanation. She wanted to know how he'd survived, why he disappeared, why he'd abandoned her. She wanted to know why he chose to reveal himself now. Even more, she wanted to know what that meant for her, and the fear of his answer kept words from forming.

He was not pleased with her lack of reaction. He stared at her, shoulders slumped, jaw working tightly as he waited for her to say something. His patience soon dissipated. "What, are you just going to stand there gaping?"

She shook her head briefly, attempting to gather some senses. "H-how?" she was able breathe as she blinked hard.

Moriarty shrugged, shifting his attention down to the mobile in his hand for a moment to silence the symphony. "Mr. Holmes thought he had me beat, so I had to prove him wrong. Made a few last-minute revisions. Amazing, really, what a few Hollywood tricks can do."

Fear and anger traveled icy hot paths over her skin. He dropped his head back as his gaze drifted along the ceiling and over the wall décor. "I let Sherlock run around closing some of my old loops in Eastern Europe while I've been…expanding." He paused for a moment to grimace, then continued, "He's gotten himself into a bit of trouble, it's forced me back in the game."

Emma pressed her back against the wall as he rose to his feet. His eyes swept over the room again as he smiled lightly. "I was a bit surprised to hear you were back in America playing house," he said. "Got the car, the home, the job, the _fiancé. _Adorable." Moriarty's expression twisted with a mixture of disappointment and disgust as he turned away from her to pace over to the window. "I expected you to be doing something a bit less…boring, with your time."

Two fingers parted the sheer white curtains to one side as he stared outside in silence. Her instinct was to run instead of reach for him, which was painfully confusing. She thought him dead, but he was here now, and that should have been enough for her. He'd been everything to her. And yet his presence now provoked such apprehension her body shook and her head swooned. She wished him gone, terrified of the passing minutes drawing closer to Matthew's arrival home. He was not safe.

"Suppose it doesn't matter!" Moriarty exclaimed as he let the curtain fall back into place and turned on his heel. "It's time for you to come back."

The fateful words. Her eyes closed involuntarily as she exhaled slowly.

"What." When she opened her eyes again, he was only a few feet away from her. "Don't tell me you've actually enjoyed – this -," his gaze shifted back and forth in emphasis of their surroundings. His brow furrowed with disbelief, and then lifted as he began to chuckle with amusement. "Oh, I understand," he sighed. Moriarty licked his bottom lip as he cupped her chin. "You're mad, aren't you. Look, I couldn't tell you I was alive, because you would have stayed with Sebastian. I needed you away, I needed you _safe."_

"You were dead."

"Pardon?" He tilted his ear to her as she cleared her throat.

"You were dead. I had to move on. I can't go back to that."

He straightened to his full height, lips tight as he considered her. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," he mused. "You're angry, I get that. But you _really _shouldn't say things like that to me."

"I mean it-"

The slap was sharp, immediate, and unexpected. The force of his backhand knocked her head against the wood doorframe, and she groaned against the combination of sting and dull ache. It had been years since she'd felt such a pain. It was not easy to grow used to again. She cupped her hand against her cheek, wincing as she made to slip through the door.

"Don't run, darling," Moriarty warned as he slipped off his suit jacket. "That would leave me alone with Matthew, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that." He grabbed her and hauled her up into his arms tightly. She remained limp against him, too smart to fight. "My beautiful Emma," he cooed, shifting her higher. "I wonder what Matthew will say when he finds out the truth about you. Liar. Thief. _Killer. _I wonder what he'll say."

Emma squirmed in his hold. "You want me back, James? You have me back. So let's go."

"Naw, I think you're just saying that." He tossed her down onto the bed, and began to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt. "I think you only say that because you're selfish. You're selfish, and you want to keep me away from him. You forget, what's yours is mine, love."


End file.
